CHAPTER ONE

      DR. ANGELICA CONLEY knocked once before pushing into the room of her very first patient at Sutcliffe Memorial Hospital almost a year after that first treatment in Emergency. A patient she’d been saddened to see readmitted earlier in the week.

      “Hi, Jenna.” She wasn’t Jenna’s doctor now, she’d just had the sad duty of discovering and diagnosing Jenna’s original nephroblastoma, which had recurred after six months of remission. Jenna was now under the care of a pediatric oncologist and the Scottish pediatric surgeon who unknowingly set Angel’s imagination on fire. At least she hoped he didn’t know but, considering the way women seemed to fall at his feet, he probably at least suspected. She was alive, after all. It was one of the only things she had in common with her colleagues. In almost every other way, she stood apart from them, an oddity who didn’t fit in to the Manhattan scene, and never could.

      She really should’ve known that from the start—she’d had three decades to write it into her DNA, but she’d still fallen for the fantasy that things could be different here, that who she was and where she’d come from wouldn’t matter. But within three days at her first New York job, her past had come back to bite her, which was how she’d ended up at Sutcliffe. Fortunate, probably, but still...

      Being human was the only thing she had in common with her colleagues and being subject to the emotions that came with it. Like humiliation. If the serial Scottish flirt hadn’t sorted out her pesky reaction to him yet, she just had to hang in there until January and she’d be far enough away it would no longer matter what he or the rest of her New York colleagues felt about the Kentucky bumpkin who’d taken the turnip truck to medical school. She’d never hear them laughing from eight hundred miles away.

      And in Atlanta, no one knew her or her history. Especially not old boyfriends she’d once been young and foolish enough to share with. Turned out New York really wasn’t that big if you shared the same profession.

      But this was about Jenna. Not about Angel’s own problems. Or the Scotsman.

      Although it was hard to fake a smile in the face of bad news, that didn’t mean Angel couldn’t try and put the twelve-year-old at ease, especially since she’d heard there was something more amiss today.

      Jenna lay in her hospital bed, swaddled in extra blankets, the dark, sunken shadow below her brown eyes an unfortunate and telling symptom of a wasting disease along with the natural exhaustion and fear that accompanied it.

      She didn’t bother turning her attention to Angel, who she usually called her favorite doctor. The lack of response and her dull stare at the television could mean anything; the trauma swirling around her was as much emotional exhaustion as physical.

      “I heard you’re not feeling well today.” Angel tried anyway, praying she had some leverage. It was only three days since surgery, and Jenna needed to eat to get better, which had been the day’s report: Jenna’s refusing to eat.

      “No.” The one-word answer set her alarm bells to full volume. No matter what was going on, Jenna tended to maintain a generally happy outlook, regardless of her difficult diagnosis and obstacles. Today, there wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her face.

      This could take a while. And that was okay. Angel’s shift was over; she had time for however long her quick visit became. Her tiny, half-empty apartment wouldn’t miss her.

      The door to the bathroom was closed. Angel tilted her head to listen and look for light beneath, but there was nothing. “Your mom here today?”

      “No.” Another single word answer. Whatever was wrong, there would be no quick solve.

      Angel snagged a chair and slid it up to the bedside, indicating her intention to stay. “Did she have to work?”

      “No.”

      “Has she already left for the day?”

      “No...” This time the admission came with a little quiver to her lower lip.

      The weight and tightness blooming in Angel’s chest had her leaning forward, trying to keep alarm from entering her voice. Something must have happened. Nothing insignificant would keep Mrs. Lindsey away from her daughter’s bedside for even a day.

      She took a moment and studied the girl’s position in the bed. She’d considered it a hallmark of weakness and exhaustion, but since they’d started to speak, Jenna’s arms had crossed over her chest. She also avoided eye contact. The teariness wasn’t worry, she was angry. This was not the product of an emergency.

      Just narrowing the options away from fear to anger eased the alarm roiling through her. Angel sat back up, allowing a deep breath. Sometimes she was glad for the survival skills her earliest education had given her. She might’ve been born far from any kind of city, but she could read people well enough to catch the first whiff of danger and knew when to depart before situations escalated to the need to run. It also came in handy in normal conversation or treating kids who really didn’t want treatment.

      “Where is she?”

      “With Mattie.” Jenna looked as far from Angel as she could then, out of the windows to the flurries blowing around in the late November chill.

      Did that mean outside? “Where did they go?”

      “It’s his birthday,” Jenna murmured, then added, “and it’s on tree day this year.”

      The lighting of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center was happening today. Always the first Wednesday after Thanksgiving, which Angel had celebrated last week with the best turkey sandwich she’d ever tasted, purchased the night before from an authentic New York deli.

      “Is that what he wanted for his birthday?” Hard to believe—the kid was four. Would be easier to believe if he wanted to visit the tree at the local pizza arcade.

      “We always go. Every year.” Jenna’s voice wobbled.

      Every year. Except this year she didn’t get to go. This year, which had been a bad year. And this week had started with her losing one of her kidneys along with the tumor that had reached her spine with enough pressure to corrupt her balance and the ability to control her legs. Her second such surgery this year, and it promised another round of chemotherapy after Christmas. Her hair had only just gotten long enough to begin styling again.

      It was a lot for a child. It would’ve been a lot for an adult.

      “Next year you’ll get to go again.” Angel heard the words come out, knew it was wrong to say it—no one could promise this child she’d be alive next year—but the defeat she saw in the slope of Jenna’s frail shoulders and the pain in her voice had the words flying out of Angel’s mouth before that logical